Avoidable Contact (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

3:30 A.M. | 10:40 HOURS REMAINING

“Brakes done, tires going on.” Bruce warned.

I tightened my belts again and breathed deeply. Focused on the Corvette.

Three seconds later, I pushed the ignition button as the released air jacks bounced the car back onto its new tires. The crew member at the front left corner of the car checked for oncoming traffic and waved me out.

“Take it easy this first lap,” Bruce instructed. “You're still under yellow.”

“Copy, where's the field?”

“Coming out of NASCAR 2 onto the back straight. You'll have most of a lap to catch up and feel out the new brakes. Should be no one around you.”

I focused on hitting my marks as I exited pit lane—careful on my cold tires and brakes not to make the rookie mistake of running into the pit wall. I gave the throttle a quick burst when I joined the track in Turn 2, then pounced on the brakes harder than I needed to for Turn 3. Did the same into Turn 5. Reported to Bruce that all was well.

“Great,” he returned. “Stay careful while you get everything up to temperature and catch up to the field.”

“Copy.”

Coming out of the infield onto the banking again, I saw more vehicles headed to Turn 1, one more safety truck and a tractor loaded with tires, obvious replacements for those damaged in the accident.

I caught up to the pack and cruised around at 60 mph behind a silver prototype with white and red stripes. That speed was a walk in the park compared to race-pace, which gave me time to notice the eerie flickering of active fire pits in infield campsites. I also had time to try to make sense of what I'd learned.

A variety of things didn't sit right with me—Ian's accident and Monica Frank's existence, for example. Foster Calhoun's narrow focus on Richard Arena was another. Not that I believed Arena was a good guy. I thought he ran his businesses in nefarious and underhanded ways, right up to possible dealings with the Mob and investigation by the Feds. Plus the brother on the run for killing someone. Gramps aside, all evidence pointed to him being crooked, to a higher level than the mild wickedness sometimes exhibited in the other paddock inhabitants.

On the other hand, Arena supposedly eschewed violence himself and insisted on his racecars operating strictly within the rules. The irony was rich: a crook goes straight in an environment where pushing limits is the job—where trying to break the rules is expected and best practice. I couldn't decide if I thought he was a fool or I admired him. But I didn't think he was impulsive or stupid. Trying to kill Stuart—in broad daylight while wearing a race team shirt—seemed like both. Plus, he had an alibi for the time of Stuart's attack.

It could have been Arena's order and an underling's doing.
It wasn't a stretch to think ill of anyone involved with that team—even the likeable “hatchet man”—and I knew first-hand how some people in that tent ran high on emotion and violence and low on thought.

Could my cousins or uncle have tried to kill Stuart?

I shook my head as I played follow-the-leader through Turn 3. I expected Holden, Billy, and Ed to be up to no good, though I didn't really believe they'd run Stuart down. But other people in that tent?

I clenched my fists on the wheel, wondering why Monica had cozied up to Stuart. And why he'd let her. I felt twin stabs of guilt and grief over missing dinner with him—and for the first time I wondered what would have been different if I'd been there. Would Monica have been around? Would Stuart have met with Calhoun? I wondered if Monica had been the one to see Stuart with Calhoun and pass the message to Arena. If she'd been the reason Stuart was injured. If I'd been there, would the timing have been different?

I swallowed hard.
If I'd been at dinner, would Stuart still be fighting for his life?

This wasn't helping. I flipped up the visor on my helmet and rubbed my eyes. The rough feel of my gloves reminded me to focus on facts, logic, and driving the car.

Fine, Kate, you don't like Monica. Maybe you should swallow your pride and ask about her conversation with Stuart.
I blew out a breath and flipped my visor closed again. Doing so sounded like hell, but might be worth a try.

Bruce's voice cut through my thoughts. “Driver of the CPG car is out and walking around. Going to the medical center, but seems to be okay.”

“Great to hear, thanks.” I felt a weight drop off my shoulders at the news. That's what I expected from even a dramatic-looking accident—that the safety systems in place would minimize impact and injury to the driver. Ian's accident had been a tragic fluke.

Bruce spoke again. “The Series still anticipates a long caution. They need to fix tires and the wall, now they've cleared the car.”

“Thanks.” I took a deep breath, then took another.

Long caution means plenty of time to think. Back to Stuart. Look at it another way. Why would someone try to kill him?
I could only think of three motives.

The first was to stop him. Calhoun thought this was Arena's motive, to stop Stuart giving Calhoun damaging information about Arena. But I couldn't imagine Stuart having access to information so damaging to Arena he'd be killed for it. Plus, I knew Stuart's ethics and integrity. Team information would be confidential or proprietary to the team and Series. He'd never share that with an outsider. Not even me. He wouldn't have told Calhoun anything.
If
any damaging information existed. If it was in Series files. If Stuart knew it.

That seemed like too many ifs to me, but I didn't have a secret I'd hurt someone to keep. An individual who didn't know the extent of Stuart's moral code
might
think information existed and
might
think Stuart would hand it over.
And might send his hatchet man after Stuart.

I frowned. It seemed farfetched.

The second motive was revenge. I didn't think this applied to Arena and friends, otherwise the hypothetical damaging information would already be out—and Calhoun wouldn't be asking for my help. But revenge suited others in the paddock like Greg Davenport or another small-team owner who thought Stuart favored the big teams at their expense.

Then there were people who didn't get hired by the new Series, such as Keith Ingram, Jonathan Charles, and Perry Jameson. I wondered how many other disgruntled former ALMS or Grand-Am employees were out there and how many blamed Stuart for their lack of employment. Not to mention drivers who were out of a ride, due to fewer teams in total or revisions to driver rankings. Like Nik Reyes.

The third motive I could imagine was someone who'd benefit with Stuart gone. Tug Brehan leapt to mind. Between his near giddiness at assuming Stuart's role and his secretive conversation with Ryan at the Arena team, Tug might deserve a little investigating.

As did Elizabeth Rogers, especially given her current taste in men. Which brought me back around to wondering what my cousins were up to. Were they here simply as spectators and moral support? I snorted under my helmet. Doubtful.

Who else was acting weird?

My uncle wasn't the only driver from the Arena mega-team who was unstable and potentially dangerous on track—though Uncle Eddie was the same off-track as well.
Could he have tried to run Stuart down?
I was positive he was capable, but would he have a reason? How could I find out? I heard his voice in my head, bitter and hateful, and I stiffened. That really couldn't be in the car with me.

Sam Remington was also acting weird, but that was personal—and a couple years too late. My father being helpful, no questions asked? My half-sister wanting to get to know me? Unusual occurrences. Weird for me, maybe, but nothing a normal person would classify as suspicious.

I steered through the Bus Stop. Then I remembered Joe Smith, and I wondered if he'd have information I could use—which brought me back to Richard Arena. Maybe Arena was the focus of everything, after all.

Who had the opportunity to hurt Stuart? Who wasn't around yesterday morning?

I knew Arena and Monica were in the clear, thanks to the detective. But I considered Tug and Elizabeth, Uncle Eddie and the cousins, and even Greg. Maybe the Kulik brothers? Then I wondered who else I should consider.

“Hi, Kate.”

I blinked. Holly wasn't who I expected to hear on the radio.

Chapter Thirty-nine

3:50 A.M. | 10:20 HOURS REMAINING

“What's up?” My heart was in my throat, even though I knew she wouldn't give me bad news about Stuart like this.

“Everyone's fine. More on the same topic,” she replied.

My pulse rate slowed.
Stuart's still okay, and there's more dirt on Arena.
“Copy.”

“Confirmation on all but the pals stuff. Plus some background.”

All the bad stuff we'd heard was true, but not the good stuff from Gramps' friends. Background might be Arena's own history.

Holly spoke again. “Found out more about the missing item.”

I was silent, steering my way through Turn 3, the Kink, and Turn 5. Wondering what she meant.
Missing? His brother.
I pushed the radio button. “Found hi—found it?”

“No, though it might be home at your favorite beach. Apparently it went missing after a car accident.” She paused. “Lot of that today. Also, Stuart's still holding his own.”

I felt the rush of relief at the news about Stuart first. Then I frowned, surprised she'd delivered that tidbit over the radio. I thought back through her statement.
The reason Arena's brother is on the run is because of a car accident? But I thought he'd killed someone…other car accidents today and Stuart.
She meant Julio Arena killed someone in a hit-and-run accident. Like someone tried to do to Stuart.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly as I followed the field through the Bus Stop.
Was Calhoun right? Was Julio Arena in Daytona? Did he run Stuart down?

I took a deep breath. Holly said Julio Arena might be home at my favorite beach. I didn't think I had a favorite, only a beach I'd hated and would never go back to—that's what she meant. Holly and I had taken the road trip from hell one spring to Rosarito in Baja California, where everything that could go wrong had. We'd hightailed it out of Mexico, and I'd sworn never to drive across the border again. Translation: Julio Arena was supposedly living in Rosarito. Another good reason never to go back.

My brain was scrambled. The car in front of me swerved hard sideways. I braked quickly.
Get the emotion out of your head, Kate. Take in the information, but focus on the car.

“Any other messages?”

“Nope,” Holly replied. “I'll tell our friends. Have a good stint.”

She'd share the reporter's information with the cops.
I
let the details she'd given me roll around in my subconscious as I circled under caution. I thought about anyone I'd seen in the Arena tent who could be Arena's thuggish younger brother. Hiding in plain sight as a crew member, maybe? Could he really be here? Why would he risk it? Better to stay safely in Rosarito, God help him.

I yawned. Two more laps down. The caution was doing nothing to keep me awake.

I called to the pits. “Anyone got any jokes?”

“Nothing clean enough for the radio,” Jack responded.

“I've got a story that'll entertain you all.” This time it was Cooper, my spotter.

“Keep it appropriate.” That was from Jack.

“It's a
story
,” Cooper returned. “Hypothetical. Because if it had
really happened
, it would be seriously messed up.”

Cooper's voice made it clear it wasn't hypothetical. “Entertain me,” I radioed.

“Once upon a time,” he began, making me chuckle. “There were two heroic guards at the top of a great castle—the world's greatest castle—doing their jobs to watch out for the great fighters inside the castle walls. Even in the middle of the night, regardless of wind, rain, fog, or any other discomfort.”

He paused, then went on in a more serious tone, “Track update. Only a couple trucks remaining at the wall they've been fixing. Shouldn't be long now.” He paused again. “Anyway, the story. These heroic spotters—I mean, guards. They knew their place and never asked for glory. They knew their job was to watch and call down messages, but never to fight, for though they had the hearts of warriors, they hadn't the skills.”

Jack snorted. “Does this have a point?”

I keyed the mic. “It's keeping me awake. Keep telling me the fairy tale, Coop.”

“Thank you, fair maiden. These brave guards were minding their own business one night when two crafty, malicious, and wealthy men scaled the heights of the guard tower and tried to bribe the guards to betray their, er, king. And princess?”

“What the hell?” All traces of amusement were gone from Jack's voice. I echoed his sentiment under my helmet.

“But those loyal guards wouldn't be swayed. They drove off the dastardly villains, with the help of their colleagues, and returned to their posts to spin tales like the bards of old for the royal court.”

I was torn between shock and amusement. He'd been entertaining. But if what he said was true, someone tried to bribe them to not do their jobs. Who did that kind of thing?

I pressed the transmit button. “Coop, what's your day job?”

“English professor, city college.”

That figured.

“You tell anyone else that story?” Jack asked.

“Not yet. Waiting for the main guard to come back on duty in the tower here,” Cooper told him.

“I'll get that expedited.” Jack paused. “Thanks for the…entertainment.”

I considered. Two men, crafty, dastardly villains. Rich. Trying to subvert my spotter. I might be paranoid, but I thought I knew who fit that bill. “Coop, you know who the villains were?”

“We're getting that offline, Kate,” Jack broke in. “Holly says to tell you your guess is correct.”

I didn't respond.
My cousins are up to no good and are actively trying to damage my race. Fantastic.

The radio went silent after that. I kept circulating with the rest of the field.

All the coded messages made my head hurt, though some of that was the coffee I'd had wearing off. Plus a long, fatiguing day of suppressing emotion. I was fine when I was focused and racing. But the downtime under caution like this was tough. Boring.

Fortunately, there were fewer track vehicles in Turn 1 this time by, and I began to hope we'd get back to racing soon.

Bruce confirmed it a lap later. “Series is telling us five more laps of caution. We're going to bring you in to top up with fuel. You good to stay in another stint?”

“Thank goodness. Yes, I'll stay in.” It would be my fourth actual stint, but one had been half normal length and one had been thirty minutes of caution. Regulations barred a driver from staying in the car more than four consecutive hours, so I was safe. I was awake. I wanted more time behind the wheel.